this bag is my bag

Really, they're Ringolos
and i am not eating wedding bands because
really, it's too soon and anyway
I don't even remember the name of that tea you like
that John brings back from Spain.
Still, I place each barbecue-flavoured ring
on my tongue (which I imagine to be a small cushion
of sky-blue satin with white
lace fringes)
and pose like some dark-haired little cousin
of yours who would be more interested in
where the dog has wiggled off to than ringbearing.
And my mind wanders, like the cousin's mind
that wiggles after the dog,
to you and your unshaven face and the white roses and
each Ringolo crunch is your salty kiss,
your Listerine kiss, your cigarette kiss,
your poutine and Red Bull kiss.
It's Sunday afternoon and I'm hungry.

goo goo eyes

I swim in primordial gunk

with you, and I make gunk-balls

to throw at you.

I pummel you with

genesis stew,

I pummel you

with genesis stew.

And this one is enzymes,

this one is glue.

Smack you, baby,

and this one too.

Now you are spattered

with bubbling glop, and I

am breaststroking through.

.

I love you in a snarling way;

We need to grow a lung

or two.